The Game
by SomeoneNewer
Summary: Oh, yes, the game had changed alright, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to play.


Night can be an interesting time. To the fearful, it can make even the safest street seem deadly. To the feared, it can offer invisibility, anonymity, and solitude. This night was no different from any other Summer night in Gotham. And he, the feared, meandered casually down one of the so-called "safe" streets. But wherever he existed, safety could not. He clings expertly to the darkest corners of the night, avoiding the glow of streetlights and porch lights. Looking into the occasional window in passing from the sidewalk at the blue flickering of a television set, probably blaring some late night trash TV with an obnoxious host laughing at his own jokes, no doubt written for him by somebody else.

His clothes - an old brown suit and a navy blue shirt he wore when he didn't want to be seen - grip him with sweat in the sticky, humid air of a Gotham Summer. It was enough to keep most people inside, cool and comfortable with air conditioning. Not him. He adored the heat. Everything was made more intense by the simple factor of the temperature. He could feel each movement in the air, smell each scent, however pleasant or putrid, as it passed him, and it excited him.

He coveted nights like this. Nights he got to himself. He didn't get to enjoy them as frequently as he would have liked, as busy as he kept himself. But he loved the peace of them, and how easily he knew he could destroy that peace. He reveled in the fact that if he were to walk through the front door of any house on this street - on any street in Gotham - behind it would be someone who knew his name, who knew his face, and who feared him greatly. Fear was the great controller of all in this city, and in Gotham, he was fear. Fear was the reason he never encountered anyone on nights like this, on streets like this one.

He loved this city. He had never encountered one like it. Only in Gotham could the sounds of sirens be heard from anywhere at anytime. Only in Gotham did adults fear alleys to the same degree with which children fear under the bed. Only in Gotham could a grown man in a bat costume hold more sway with the cities criminals than the police force. And he wouldn't have it any other way. Only in Gotham could he feel at home.

He turns his head slightly to glace over his shoulder as a vehicle approaches him from behind, careful to keep his head angled down, not craving the recognition he typically sought. The car passes him and pulls into the driveway of a burgundy house across the street a few houses away. No one gets out of the car for a few minutes. He watches silently as the driver of the car finally gets out and walks quickly around it, getting into a second vehicle parked in the driveway and backing out. He tilts his face downward, watching the sidewalk as it passes beneath him, not looking up until the SUV passes him, again glancing over his shoulder to watch the car speed onto another street.

He looks up ahead and raises an eyebrow. _Peculiar._ He continues wandering along the street, flicking his eyes occasionally to the abandoned car. _Only in Gotham._ It wasn't until he was one house away from the burgundy house that he heard the faint 'click' of a car door. He stops in his tracks and waits. It was a few moments later that he noticed the movement of the passenger door opening. From his vantage point, he couldn't see into the car, and being on the opposite side, could not see who was in the vehicle. He takes a few careful steps forward, not wanting just yet to alert anyone to his presence.

He hears the distinct sound of heels on pavement, and then a muffled 'thump' of someone falling to the ground before he hears the car door gently close. The heels scrape awkwardly on the driveway a few times, and then he sees a head peek just over the roof of the car. He listens to the slow, uneven steps as the petite woman begins to navigate around the vehicle, keeping an unsteady hand on it as she did so. When she reaches the front of the car, he can see from the light of the house that she is wearing a large, mans coat. _She must be drunk._ He smirks at the thought and the possibilities brings with it.

It seems to take forever, but eventually she's gone as far as she can go with the support of the car underneath her hand. Cautiously, she lifts her hand, replacing it nervously a few times before she feels steady enough to stand on her own. She takes one shaky step and crumples in the ground in a heap. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and swallows a laugh as he watches her stumble back to her feet, leaning back onto the car. He sees her lower her head to one of her hands and rolls his eyes irritably. Tears. _Predictable._ She sinks slowly to the ground once again, keeping her back against the car.

The front light of the house illuminates her well enough that he can see her pulling her shoes off, hooking the straps of them with one of her fingers and then reaching up behind her with her other hand to lift herself from the ground once more. Clearly feeling more confident on her feet, she takes a step towards the house, swaying slightly. When she stills, she slides her other foot forward. She repeats this process until she reaches the front step. There is only one, low step between her and the front door, which is a higher step up when opened. She leans forward slowly with her shoeless-hand extended in front of her, stopping when she finds the door frame. She starts to lift one foot, then stomps it down quickly. She tries to lift it again a couple of times, dancing it up and down, but doesn't get it off the ground. Instead, she leans slightly the other way and lifts her other foot with less trouble, finding the top of the step more easily. Pausing briefly, she then pulls herself up, leaning her other hand, shoes and all, on the other side of the door frame.

Once on the step, she slumps forward, crashing into the door. He shakes his head. _Not drunk, perhaps a junkie._ He watches her fumble around in the pocket of the coat, much too big on her petite frame. _She's like a kid in Daddy's clothes._ Finally, her hand emerges gripping, he assumes, keys. She sets her shoes down on the small edge at the bottom of the door, one falls off and hits her foot. She doesn't seem to notice. With both hands, she works her way through the keys until she finds the right one. He is surprised when she gets the key in the lock the first time and resists applauding her. She throws the door open, and grips the door frame, seeming to brace herself with tight arms. With effort, hopping twice, she hurls herself in through the door, falling face first into the darkness. This time, he does allow himself to indulge in a quiet chuckle at her expense.

He is just about to continue on his stroll when the front light of the house goes out, and one inside the entryway comes on, like she had hit both switches with one swoop. He decides to watch her a moment longer. She shrugs out of the coat, revealing a multi-coloured Summer dress covering an almost impossibly small woman. The large coat hits the floor and, as she steps over it, leaning with one hand on the bannister of the stairs behind her, she throws the door shut with her other hand and begins what is sure to be a long journey up the stairs. He shakes his head and moves to take a step when something happens. Her forgotten shoe.

The door tries to squeeze itself shut over the strappy, heeled number, but ultimately, the force gently tosses it back in the other direction and leaves it open. The pathetic woman crawling up the stairs doesn't take notice. But he does. He drags his tongue across his lips long and slow, relishing the familiar feeling that had started pulsing through him. He wasn't a man of faith. He didn't believe in fate or destiny. He wasn't one to think things were meant to be. But he did believe in one thing. Chaos. He jerks his head quickly to the side, getting a satisfying crack from his neck, and pops his arms forward before straightening up and crossing the street with purpose. However much he enjoyed his moments of solitude, there was one mistress he would always serve, and chaos was commanding him tonight.

...

Earlier that day.

...

"We're taking your car," his voice travels easily up the stairs and assaults her ears in front of the bathroom mirror. "I'm low on gas. Don't wanna go halfway across the city in it for this crap."

She rolls her eyes, something she wouldn't have dared to do if he could see her, and continues applying her makeup. "Fine," she calls back to him, masking the irritation in her voice out of habit. After a few more moments of work, she throws her makeup to the counter with a huff. Turning her head this way and that, she notices she is getting good at covering up bruises, and that depresses her. She hops off the countertop, where she had been sitting so she could lean in close to the mirror and took in her reflection, smoothing her hands down over the front of her dress. She nods before grabbing her hot curling iron and getting to work on her long, almost black hair. She never took too much time getting ready, but for the first time in years, she had been invited to a family function - an anniversary party for her parents - and wanted to show everyone that she was okay and that she belonged there.

"Ready?" Travis appears in the doorway, looking her reflection up and down impatiently. "You look fine. We gotta go."

She watches as he pushes a hand through his light hair and appraises his own appearance more approvingly than he had hers. He had always been handsome. Bright blue eyes, soft, honey coloured hair, which he kept cut short, but with just enough length to play with. He was average height, not quite six feet tall, but towered over her, at barely five-one. He was built like the football player he'd once been, large, solid muscles. He was the type of man women the world over swooned for.

And swoon she had. She had met him her first year of college and couldn't believe this mature, shining star of the football team had set his sights on her. He swept her off her feet and they both fell hard and fast. They enjoyed almost a year of bliss when he got injured. ACL. Completely killed any hopes he'd had of a football career. As hard and fast as they had fallen in love, he fell from grace even harder.

It started with controlling behaviours, paranoid that she would leave him now that he wasn't the man he had been, he made sure to keep her close. It escalated quickly to the occasional slap for perceived indiscretions, and from there, there was little she wouldn't tolerate from him. She had grown up with a controlling father, and while he had never been violent towards his family, the transition wasn't as challenging for her as it should have been. She felt bad for Travis. He had lost everything he'd ever wanted. All he had left was her, and she couldn't bring herself to leave him. So that became her life. She married him. She allowed him to alienate her from her family, and he became the center of her universe. He allowed her to work. Rather, he demanded it of her, needing two incomes to support the lifestyle he wanted. He had taken the steps to become a teacher of high school phys ed. She worked at a dealership selling used cars. They lived comfortably enough.

"Hey," fingers snap an inch from her face. "I'm talkin' to you."

She is jolted out of her reverie. "Sorry, baby, what was that?" She half-smiles at him.

"Let's go," he waves an impatient hand to direct her towards the stairs. "We're gonna be late and I'll never hear the end of it."

She nods, taking in her reflection once more before turning the bathroom light off and closing the door.

...

Presently.

...

By the time he gets to the door, she is no longer in sight. He picks her shoes up and sets them inside before he steps in. He felt at home. He always did. This city was his, and every household in it felt like his own. He turns the knob before he closes the door, not wanting to alert her just yet to any sort of intrusion. He locks the door once it shut, and pulls aside the blinds over one of the windows running the length of the door on either side, peering outside out of habit. The street is still empty. He smiles to himself.

Feeling suddenly peckish, he moseys into the kitchen, opening the fridge door and bending down to inspect the contents. He starts loading his arms up with various sandwich meats, veggies, and condiments, dumping them all noisily onto the counter and shushing himself, holding out his hands as if to quiet the food. He pauses and tilts his head, listening to the floor above him. No movement. He nods, continuing to prepare his snack. He rifles through about half of the cupboards before he comes across the bread, tossing it to the counter with the rest of the food, and grabs a plate from another cupboard.

Humming to himself, he makes himself a messy sandwich, slopping mustard and mayo onto two slices of bread and sticking one of everything he had taken from the fridge onto one slice. He carelessly slaps the second slice on top, picking up the sandwich as he does so and bringing it right to his mouth, taking a large bite, still humming. He devours the food quickly, leaving the mess behind and taking a beer from the refrigerator, opening the bottle and dropping the cap to the floor. He takes himself on a tour of the residence. The kitchen is to the left of the door, through the dining room which is at the front of the house. Walking through the back of the house, he finds himself in a bathroom.

He flicks the light on and regards himself in the mirror turning his head back and forth, not used to seeing himself without makeup. He sneers at his own reflection and turns the light off, finishing his beer and depositing the bottle in the sink before he decides to continue his tour. The next room was a small, office type room, with a computer and a couple of full bookshelves. One chair sat in the far corner with a table on one side and a lamp on the other. He continues on. The last room on this floor was the living room. He would have found himself there had he turned right instead of left upon entering the house. It was a large room with a big comfortable furniture set.

He ambles over to the overstuffed chair and drops himself into it, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table and drumming his hands on the arm of the chair while taking in the rest of the room. His eyes come to rest on the mantle over the modest fireplace and the photographs lining it. He pulls himself out of the chair with a grunt and saunters over to them. Touching each one with a finger as he memorizes each detail of them. There are only two people in the photos, and he assumes one of them is the woman he's here to see.

She doesn't look like a drunk or a junkie, he notices. On the contrary, they look like the perfect couple. In the first picture, an attractive blond man is grinning at the camera from under a cap with twinkling blue eyes, crouching down on a rock, no doubt on some vacation they took together, he curls his lip up at the photo before flicking it from the mantle onto the floor and moving along to the next one. She's with him in this one, though only he is looking at the camera. She is looking up at him with her arms wrapped around his chest, her mouth is open like she is laughing. He lifts the photo and inspects it closer. They are on the water. Either on a boat or a dock. It is difficult to tell, as the photo is close up on the couple. Bored with it, he drops that one to the floor, as well.

The next picture is in the middle. A large, wedding picture. Bride and groom both beaming at the camera. They're on a beach somewhere tropical, the palm trees suggest, barefoot in white sand. Both are dressed in white. She in a long, cotton dress with thin straps, he in cargo shorts and a button up shirt. She has a bright, orange flower in her hair, and a bouquet of multi-coloured flowers in her hand. He gets in close to look at her. She is smiling, dark eyes crinkling at the corners, long, dark hair flowing, trapped by the photographer in a gust of wind. She is tanned, especially against all of the white in the photo. He moves his head slightly to appraise the husband with the same scrutinizing gaze. He looks like he's won something. His smile is closed-mouthed and cocky, his sunglasses hide his eyes. His arm disappears behind his new wife's back, his other hand holds a champagne glass. Narrowing his eyes, he slaps that picture to the ground, as well.

Another shot of the two of them is after that one. This time, they are both sitting in a silver convertible, him at the wheel, her sitting on top of the seat with her feet on the dash. She has an expression of amused shock on her face and he is laughing at the steering wheel. She is leaning forward, smiling with her jaw dropped open, long ponytail fallen over her knees. Her shirt has ridden up to reveal a strip of tanned skin and a tattoo he can't make out. He throws the picture over his shoulder, it lands on the sofa.

The last photograph is just of her. She's looking at the camera like she's just shared a private joke with the photographer, smirking and sucking in slightly on her bottom lip. Her eyes are flirty, soft tendrils of hair frame her face. He drops the picture to the floor at his feet and crunches it once beneath his shoe. He bends down and retrieves the photo from the ruined glass and metal, pulling the image within an inch of his face for a moment before folding it up and tucking it into his back pocket.

Feeling giddy, he spins on his heel towards the stairs, craning his neck to look up and around them, making sure he still can't see her. He sees nothing, and the house is quiet. Bobbing his head to the tune within it, he expertly climbs the stairs without making a sound. The bathroom light is on, but the room is empty. He looks down the hall. There are three other doors, only one of them open, the lights off inside. Head down and leaning slightly forward he creeps into the room. There is a small form curled up on the bed, looking like little more than a black lump in the darkness.

This was one of his favourite parts. The reveal. He considers how he will do it. Pacing quietly at the foot of the bed. He could pull the blankets out from underneath her, laughing as she spun to the floor and stumbled to stand in her inebriated stupor, then laughing more when she realized who had woken her so rudely. Or, he could lay down next to her and coax her gently to wake with whispers and caresses only fit for a lover, and kissing her cruelly when she realized he was no such thing.

He decides on something simpler. He walks to the wall by the door where the light switch is and pulls his hand back. He counts to three quietly to himself before pounding the switch loudly with his hand, illuminating the room with a bang. To his disappointment, she doesn't stir. _Passed out. Typical._ He nods his head from one side to the other. He takes a few steps closer to her. She is on top of the covers in the middle of the bed, still wearing the brightly coloured dress. Her legs are pulled up tightly to her chest and the skirt of her dress has ridden up high on her thighs. He examines her closely, arms wrapped around her legs, face turned shyly downwards into her knees. She is covered in cuts and bruises.

...

Earlier.

...

"I mean, really, dear, you can't even have a conversation with your mother without him watching you like a hawk. What's that all about?" Her mother, Elaine, sighs. It had been a tense evening all around for them, but she had managed to avoid anything heavy and stick to small talk with the other guests until now. It was getting late and her mother was bolder for having a few drinks in her.

"We invited you, sweetheart," she says after a moment passes. "We didn't really want him to come along."

"He's my husband, Ma," she reminds her mother. "Of course he's going to come along. We're a partnership."

"Oh, and where was that partnership when he put you in the hospital that Christmas?" The older woman raises her voice slightly.

"Keep it down, Ma," she looks around to make sure no one heard. "You don't know what you're talking about. We told you that was an accident. It was icy."

"Years later and you're still lying for him," Elaine regards her daughter with disappointment. "Where did my daughter go?"

She shakes her head, eyes looking skyward. "I can't believe I thought we could work this out," she says more to herself than her mother. "Travis was right, you can't stand my happiness."

"All I want is your happiness," Elaine reaches out, but her daughter twists away from her.

"I should go," she surveys the backyard until her eyes come to rest on her husband, who is sitting down watching her. She nods at him and then towards where their car is parked. "This was a mistake."

"Honey, please," Elaine takes a step towards her.

"Don't bother, Ma," she walks towards the driveway to catch up with Travis, who is nearly at the car already. "I gotta go."

"What'd I say, hmm?" Travis starts as soon as she slams the passenger side car door behind her.

"Trav, please, not now?" She pleads with him. "It's been a long night."

"Long?" He looks at her as he pulls away from the curb. "It should have ended hours ago. You'll never get anywhere with those people."

"Alright, I get it," she sighs. "Just watch the road."

"Watch your mouth," he points a finger at her, she pulls her lips into her mouth and bites back a response. "Aw, fuck, why didn't ya tell me you needed gas, too?" He curses, pulling into a gas station not too far from her parent's house. "Gimme your wallet, I'm not paying for this shit," he holds his hand out. She narrows her eyes at him but hands him her purse. He fishes around inside it until he finds her wallet, pulling some cash from it before throwing it, as well as her purse, into the backseat. "Check the attitude," he warns her before closing the car door.

When he is safely out of the car, she rolls her eyes. She cranks the window down to let in some of the slightly-cooling night air, and watches him fill the tank and go inside to pay. She is lost in her own thoughts when a voice pulls her out of them.

"Desi?" She jerks her head around to look beside her, there is a guy she went to high school with, filling his car at the pump next to theirs. "Desiree O'Toole?"

She smiles a genuine smile and rests her chin on her arms out the window. "Yeah. Robbie Colson. Long time no see," she replies, holding up her left hand. "Carver now. Six years."

He holds up his own hand. "Three for me," he brushes his hand through his short, curly red hair. "Got a daughter. Son on the way."

"Congratulations, Robbie, that's fantastic," she lifts her head and claps her hands together.

"That's what has me out here so late," he points to the convenience store. "Pregnancy cravings."

"Of course," Desiree nods. "A noble duty, indeed."

"Yeah, speaking of," he points to his car. "I should probably pay for this and take off. Hey, listen," he approaches the car and reaches into the window for a hug, which she cautiously returns. "It was great seeing you. You look great."

"Thanks, Robbie," she says as he pulls away. "You, too. Congrats, again," he nods his thanks and she follows him inside with her eyes, where he walks right by Travis, who looks between the two of them angrily as he walks out the door.

She doesn't say anything as he starts the car and drives away from the gas station, not sure how to gauge his mood. He doesn't make her wait long. "What the fuck was that, huh?" He practically shouts at her.

"Him?" She points with her thumb over her shoulder and shrugs. "Just an old friend from high school."

"Awful friendly," he says suggestively. She doesn't reply. They drive in silence for a few minutes. "You fuck him?"

She throws her hands up, exasperated. "Oh, for fucks sake Travis, no," she raises her voice. "Contrary to your ridiculous belief, I haven't fucked every man I've ever met."

He slaps her across the face without hesitation. Had her window been closed, her head would have collided with it. She grabs her burning cheek and looks at him, insulted, as though she couldn't have guessed he'd do such a thing. "I get so sick of this bullshit, Ray, all the time with you."

"What bullshit?" She cries out, still holding her cheek. "I didn't do anything."

"Yeah, now you deny it, Desiree, but that dude was practically feelin' you up back there," he accuses. "Crawlin' in the car to get a good look. Don't bother to deny it," his voice is loud and he is pointing his finger at her as he drives, frequently taking his eyes off the road.

"Watch the road," she commands him, finally taking her hand off of her face to point out the windshield. He steadies the wheel but keeps his eyes on her, incredulous. When he starts crossing the yellow line again, she grabs the wheel and jerks them back to their side of the road. He continues taking them over until they're pulled completely off to the side and shuts off the engine, staring at her. "I'm sorry. I just," her voice is meek and she avoids looking at him, deciding instead to stare at her hands on her lap. "You were going to run us off the road."

His calm demeanor shifting in an instant. He grabs her tightly by the back of the neck and slams her face forward into the dash. "You don't tell me what to do!" He hollers, reaching across her to roll up the window.

She's crying quietly to herself. "I'm sorry, baby, I was scared," she whimpers. "Please, don't," she gets her hands up a moment before he takes her tightly by the hair and cracks her head into the window. She grabs her head in agony.

"Stupid twat," he heaves, cranking his arm back before raining four blows onto her with an open hand, not caring where they land. The frantically tries to fight him off, pulling her legs up and holding her small hands up defensively. He takes one of her hands in a bruising grip and twists. She cries out. "You shut your mouth," he warns her, finger in her face. She doesn't make another sound besides sucking in heavy breath.

She holds onto her consciousness for a couple more blows before she blacks out. He carries on his assault for a few moments until he realizes she's passed out. He sits back in his seat and seethes for a minute before starting the car and finishing the journey home.

"Ray," he shakes her when he pulls into their driveway. "Ray, we're home," he calls with a louder voice. She doesn't move. "Desiree, I'm not carrying you in. You're fine. Come on, stop sulking," he pulls her towards him and she falls limply across the car. "Jesus," he sighs. "Fine, have it your way," he takes off his coat and wraps it around her shoulders. "Don't say I never gave ya nothin'," he rambles. "Gets cold sleeping in the car," he looks down at her, expecting her to waken from what he perceives as a fake slumber. He feels a pang of panic when she still doesn't move. "Okay, I'm sorry," he pauses again, watching her for any tells that she's awake. "Fuck. Goddammit. Fuck!" He shouts, pounding the steering wheel. "Okay... Okay..." he gets down close to her face, kissing her awkwardly in his panic. He takes a deep breath and gets out of the car, crossing the driveway in a hurry and getting into his SUV before speeding away.

...

Presently.

...

He had been wrong. He growled at himself and stormed across the room. Not drunk. Not high. She'd been roughed up. Pretty good by the looks of it. And her shaving-commercial husband was nowhere to be seen. He smirked to himself. "So, this is how the other half lives," he grumbles. _The "good people" of America._

This changed the game a little bit. He wasn't just toying with a drunk anymore. No, he had a unique opportunity here. The chance to play with someone else's broken toy. To twist up a tortured mind. The possibilities made him positively gleeful. Oh, yes, the game had changed alright, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to play.

He was pulled from his planning by a soft sound behind him, a sigh, almost a pained moan. He turned and saw her stirring. She was pushing her face into the mattress and stretching her legs out. Thinking on his feet, he flicked the lights back out. He saw her silhouette as she sat up. "Travis?" She called out weakly. He didn't respond, just shifted in his place and took a forced, hesitant step forward. She sighed. "Don't say anything," she got up gingerly and he saw her slide her dress down her body to the floor, still only a silhouette, he raked his eyes over her provocative shape. "Just lay down. Let me sleep. We can talk about it in the morning."

Her voice was hoarse, probably from crying, and she sat down on the bed, fiddling with her arm. After a minute, he heard the rattling sound of a metal bracelet being dropped onto her bedside table. Her head turned to face him. "You getting in or what?" He paused, smiling in the dark. She was making this so easy. He walked to the bed and kicked off his shoes, lowering himself down into the strangers bed. She nodded and turned away from him, curling herself to her side of the bed.

He raised his arms up and folded them under his head, grinning smugly to himself. He listened to her breathing and could tell she wasn't sleeping. He licked his lips noisily, clearing his throat. "I, uh, I hope you don't mind I helped myself to a snack downstairs," he laughed as she threw herself from the bed, her back hitting the wall between the two bedroom windows. "I was ravenous."

...

A/N - So, guys, one of the problems I'm having is that ideas keep coming to me that don't fit at all with Changes. I decided to spin them into another story. Changes will be my main focus until it is complete, and I will update this one as chapters come together. This is a totally different beast from Changes. Let me know what you think :-)


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